


Devotional

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, D/s, Kink Meme, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, foot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: Lebrassoir seeks his answer to an ancient theological question: Can a man serve both Halone and Dzemael?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the FFXIV kinkmeme. Deliberately canon-divergent--I wrote this fill as if it had been filled with the knowledge of canon a writer would have had at the time the prompt was posted, meaning as if the revelations about Lebrassoir's character that happened in the third act of the scholasticate questline never happened and his toadying for Archombadin is completely sincere. Enjoy!

It was very well known why the people of Halone were commanded to be in Ishgard. The sacred texts laid out the story in perfect clarity—Halone saw the people’s worth, and granted them a vision of the Promised Land in the north, a kingdom if they could win it and a home if they could protect it, fending off the dragon’s fire and building a city that had stood some thousand years and would stand ten thousand more. Every Ishgardian child in even the meanest of chapel schools and scriptoria knew this with perfect certainty.

Why Halone in Her wisdom had not seemed to consider the climate before She led the people north was less well understood, however.

For though the learned theologians debated the wherefores (punishment? part of the test? the perfection of divinity not accounting for mortal weakness?), the chirurgeons were unanimous on the results: Elezen were surpassingly vulnerable to the cold. As they were proposing, it was due to the length and slenderness of their limbs, displaying new, meticulous diagrams charting how the paths the humours took through the body were longer and more strenuous than for hyur and even roegadyn, thus meaning that their extremities were more at risk from the chill of winter and headiness of altitude. And even with philosophy and science aside, no thinking man would dispute that when cases of frostbite were considered, elezen made up nearly all patients—even as the onset of everwinter four years ago increased the problem overall.

And speaking of problems for the theologians! The everwinter posed for them a right conundrum. Surely, so strange and dire an event as a winter that lasted years couldn’t pass without Her knowledge—but why did She permit it? Or if She did not, what power thwarted Her will? This was the sort of debate that rattled chandeliers in churches and libraries all over Ishgard and its outlying settlements. And on such a contentious, important matter, it did behoove those who bore the gentlest blood to ensure their position would be well-regarded.

So, when Archombadin had undertaken a trip to _personally_ retrieve and review old records pried from the Snowcloak just last week, Lebrassoir had fair burst from pride. Of all Dzemael’s sons, _this_ one was surely the greatest of the generation, the towering figure the others could only aspire to. In all matters of import, Archombadin was superlative, yet never in excess—poised, rather than flamboyant, subtle, rather than stampeding, commanding, never withdrawing. And perhaps he was a hard man, flinty-eyed and sharp-tongued—but to Lebrassoir’s eyes, it made him an even more perfect image of Ishgardian nobility. One day, he was sure, Archombadin would be immortalized in the story of the realm and among the stone-hewn saints of the city, and he would do anything to help him get there.

In this instance, “anything” meant an unusual separation from his chosen master. Archombadin had had him stay behind in Ishgard, vigilant over affairs in the scholasticate and intrigues between his uncles, and gathering what materials might be necessary to supplement the new findings. It was a good job—an important job, and Lebrassoir had accepted it with an exceptionally humble “As you will it, so shall I make it.” And he had executed it loyally, and effectively—when Archombadin returned, Lebrassoir would have no reason to fear disappointment or punishment.

But the date of his scheduled return came and went without sign of him.

Lebrassoir was worried sick when he went down to sleep that night—and when he arrived at the manor the next day, it was quite clear he wasn’t the only subordinate who’d had a bad night. Whatever explanations and pacifications for Archombadin’s absence had been offered clearly were not accepted, and the entire manor was carefully still and quiet—careful not to raise the Count’s ire, or just careful not to wake those who had sneaked off to have an extra nap. Asking around, Lebrassoir soon learned that an— _anomaly_ , of sorts, had happened at the Snowcloak while Archombadin had been there, this being cause of the delay—but he would be home today, absolutely and for certain, ser. Safe and sound and…

Shortly after first afternoon bell, there was a commotion at the gates. One audible even from Archombadin’s study, where Lebrassoir was triple-checking his notes in between bouts of nervous pacing. Racing to throw open a window, he just missed catching sight of the people—but did see a carriage with Dzemael’s crest at the door. Then the hustle and bustle was heading up the stairs, louder every second, and when Lebrassoir opened the study’s doors, it was just in time to welcome in the crowd and be pulled out himself—catching a glimpse, as he was hurried away, of Archombadin wrapped in a thick cloak, face almost the same color as his hair.

 

* * *

 

It was the cold. That was what he’d been able to pick up from the chatter around him. Whatever the Snowcloak _anomaly_ had been, it had frozen everyone near it but good, and Archombadin had been no exception. Now, the young master rested in his rooms, in a heated bath, to restore him back to his proper warmth. The family physician had assured the Count that there should be no lasting harm… but even so, Lebrassoir sat and fretted in an out-of-the-way hall. Who knew if the chirurgeon was right? And even if he was, what might a period of weakness do to his standing in the eyes of the scholasticate ingrates and scheming cousins? Oh, to have certainty—to aid him, to elevate him over his own body, should the need arise…

“Serrah? Serrah.” Lebrassoir looked up to see the Dzemael majordomo’s face, patiently awaiting his attention. “The young master calls for your presence.”

“Me?” Lebrassoir blinked—jolted by emotion, inchoate but powerful. “Is he well?”

“He is capable of sarcasm again,” he said drily. “I should not keep him waiting long, were I you.”

“ _Thank you, ser!_ ” A broad smile of relief on his face, Lebrassoir sprang up and bounded past the majordomo with energy that an observer of moments ago wouldn’t have suspected. He practically flew down the hallways, hesitating only a moment before opening the door to Archombadin’s chamber.

The first thing he noticed was the heat of it—the heavy, damp air clouding his nostrils with perfumes and herbs, crowding around him, making him acutely aware of his tie, his boots, his gloves, every confining bit of cloth on him. A tub had been dragged into Archombadin’s bedroom for urgency of treatment, rather than just taking him to the baths of the manor—but the patient himself didn’t seem to appreciate the effort expended on him. He sat upright in his steaming bath, squinting at a tome held safely away from the water.

“Lebrassoir.” Archombadin didn’t look away from what he was reading.

A wave of relief and satisfaction washed over him. “Yes, ser.” That his master had been so sure it was him—so confident in his obedience…

Now Archombadin looked up, and even closed his book—and, oh Halone, he smiled. “Come here.”

It did not befit a vassal of one as great as Dzemael to be clumsy and awkward—it would hint at foolishness by association—but still Lebrassoir could not but fumble the door behind him shut, and to nervously approach Archombadin. Even though the chirurgeon said he was whole… even though there was no evidence now of pain on his face…

“Do you fear me?” Archombadin asked with eyebrow raised—and the terrible bluntness of such a phrase when uttered by a High House son was softened by his immediately following it with “Or fear for me?”

“For you, ser.” Lebrassoir swallowed as he continued coming closer to the warmth emanating from that tub—only a few lamps in the room had been lit, other than the hearth fire itself. As he watched, Archombadin reached into a case next to his tub, pulling out and then dropping into the water some glittering red things—fire shards and crystals, to keep the bath steaming hot, for if the cold returned… “They said you were frozen, and I feared—“

“What? I was… chilled, I suppose,” Archombadin said, with a very particular sort of injured dignity. Lebrassoir knew what this was about—the assumption, _incorrect as it was_ , that because his master was a seminarian, he was frail, soft, unsuited for the harshness of life outside city walls. And while such might have been permitted for the sons of other, _lesser_ High Houses, the Count de Dzemael was a worthy lord who did not tolerate weakness in his line: Archombadin was no knight, but nor was he someone to be trifled with. And never had that been more obvious to Lebrassoir than now, with Archombadin naked before him—the water colored by whatever healing herbs that had lent their smell to the air in the room, and obscuring the _details_ —but the strength of that lean body was undisguisable, and its potency surely could not be easily stifled.

And yet…

“Chills… can be serious, ser,” Lebrassoir said, as he finally reached the foot of the tub, trying both to look but also not to to _look_. “Even great men have lost toes or worse to winter.”

“Toes?” Archombadin smirked—and, heavens help him, he lifted one leg out of the water—and, saints preserve him, he held his foot out for Lebrassoir to inspect. “All are accounted for, yes?”

To be graceful while falling to one’s knees is a learned skill. Lebrassoir had learned well. With gloved hands trembling, he took hold of Archombadin’s foot—gently curving his fingers around the high arch, running his thumbs up the tender part of the sole, the inside between ball and heel. “Yes, ser. Yes…” Eyes hooded, he leaned in and sucked Archombadin’s smallest toe into his mouth, licking briefly before letting it pop out. “One…” Lebrassoir took the next one, his lord’s skin warm and pink and _healthy_ from the heat, “Two…” And even though it was his master’s _feet_ he kissed, he felt no disgust—there was no reason to, they were as perfect as all of him. “Three…” Even the tiny curve in this one was perfect, clean and perfect… “Four…” He licked his lips before wrapping them around Archombadin’s big toe, and he sucked—he didn’t dare try to meet his lord’s eyes, blush spreading over his own face—sweet, reverent, before letting go. “…Five.”

Archombadin was uncharacteristically silent—then, he pointed his foot, nudging his toes under Lebrassoir’s chin to push it up, so he had no choice but to look his master in the face. Even so, Lebrassoir let his gaze slide to the side—thrilled and embarrassed and aroused, all at once, it was too much to ask of him to gaze calmly on the object of his devotion.

“Look at me,” Archombadin commanded. But Lebrassoir, so weak by comparison, still could not. “ _Look_.”

“My lord—“ he began, voice halting—daring a glance at him the way heretics fearfully glimpse idols. “My lord, it—You ask so much.”

Once again, through his peripheral vision, Lebrassoir saw Archombadin smile. “Do you fear me?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you adore me?”

Lebrassoir lifted his chin from Archombadin’s foot. With his teeth, he pulled his gloves off his fingers, letting them fall to the floor. With bare hands he held his lord’s foot, massaged it, felt the warmth of his skin. He kissed, delicately, the tip of his big toe, then kissed—hurriedly, delightedly—all down the curve of his sole, licking around just before the heel to finish on the prominence of his ankle bone. Archombadin’s foot he pressed to his cheek, longingly he nuzzled it, eyes closed in terribly sincere bliss. And when he could open them again, he looked along Archombadin’s body, along his firm, curved calf to where, just above his knee, the water obscured him—then back to where his torso emerged at the other end, firmly toned though tense, his hands gripping the edge of the tub, and up—over his chest, past his shoulders, where his master was watching him with thrilling intensity. “Yes…” Archombadin let out his breath in a hiss.

Fear and passion warred with Lebrassoir—and in a moment remembering that he was— _they were_ —seminarians, fear won. He dropped Archombadin’s foot back into the water, and stood abruptly, ignoring the pain in his knees. “Ser—my lord, I hope I do not offe—“

That word ended in a choked gasp: Archombadin, brows set low, had sunk further into the bathtub—in order to push out his foot once more, not for Lebrassoir’s admiration, but to press it flat and hot and sopping wet against his groin. With his toes curling and uncurling in a sort of groping way, Archombadin—may Halone have mercy on them—evaluated the state of Lebrassoir’s excitement, warm bathwater darkening both robe and trousers and soaking through even to his smalls, dripping onto the tops of his boots.

“Ser…” Lebrassoir began, his voice barely more than a whisper and little less than a whimper.

“Why would you offend?” Archombadin asked, voice low as he continued feeling out Lebrassoir’s erection. “Your devotion is… breathtaking.”

“Thaaah—Thank you,” Lebrassoir swallowed, trembling all through. “Thank you, m-mmmngh…”

“Mm?” Archombadin had the very amused look of a man who is steadfastly and deliberately refusing to smile. “Speak up.”

“Mm—“ With one eye cracked open, his bottom lip brilliant red from chewing at it, Lebrassoir threw himself on divine mercy and choked out “Master—!”

Archombadin abruptly removed his foot, and Lebrassoir staggered forward—surprised, disoriented, and near ready to cry or come or both from how overwhelmed he was. As he watched, Archombadin braced himself against the edge of the tub, then stood up—water flowing down, leaving his flesh shiny and steaming—and stepped out, nude and gleaming and perfect and very, very aroused.

Without waiting for instruction, anticipating his will, Lebrassoir knelt again. “You worship me,” Archombadin said, and his tone sounded almost wondering.

“Oh, but I do,” Lebrassoir said, head spinning—and Archombadin stepped closer, resting one hand on his hair almost fondly.

“I meant that as an order, Lebrassoir.”

And that—that perfect demand of such a lower creature—a master’s vassal—a being so debased, even the liege’s command alone could make him—in his trousers, even…

Archombadin took a few seconds to realize that this was what had happened, it seemed—to put together the implications of Lebrassoir’s gasping and shuddering and sudden dazed expression—and when he did, he laughed. “Not what I had in mind, exactly—but for a mere acolyte, it will do.” Encouragingly he stroked Lebrassoir’s hair, who was slumped against his leg. When his vassal looked up at him, he looked down with eyes alight, radiant. “For now.”


End file.
